


The Crying Detective

by mightymads



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Dr. Watson's diaries, Established Relationship, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Schmoop, WARNINGS: mentions of mental health issues and unhealthy eating behaviour, set during an influenza pandemic (historically accurate), though Holmes is a manipulative little shit like he is in the canon story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:27:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25459288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightymads/pseuds/mightymads
Summary: When the Russian Influenza pandemic had reached Britain and was at its peak in London in January, 1890, Dr. Watson was on the forefront with other medics battling it. For fear of bringing the disease to Baker Street, he had moved temporarily to his surgery. But Holmes missed him too much and came up with a devious plan to see him again, if only for a few hours.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 17
Kudos: 83





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> With many thanks to **Recently Folded** for in-depth betaing and thoughtful suggestions!
> 
> Check out the amazing edits by **Granada-Brett-Crumbs** posted as the next two chapters!

_December 30th, 1913._ —Today is one of those quiet days at the very end of the year when there’s nothing else to do except sit at home by the fire and reflect on the past. I’d rather not dwell on the future at the moment. I’m only glad that Holmes managed to sneak away from America for the holiday season without endangering his undercover mission. How we’ve missed each other! His homecoming was the best Christmas gift imaginable. At least he can rest for a while from his Irish-American guise. As has been his custom since his return, he preferred to sleep in and won’t rise until lunchtime, so here I am, alone in our sitting-room, ensconced on the sofa and scribbling in my notebook.

My most recent story, _The Adventure of the Dying Detective_ , has had a good reception from the public so far, albeit the title seems to have unnerved many readers, having brought up memories of another December story, _The Final Problem_. They had nothing to fear, however, for it was all make-believe again. To be more precise, those events had happened before Reichenbach, and they had been carefully orchestrated by Holmes, unlike the fight in Meiringen. Only _before_ Reichenbach he could attempt to trick me that way. _After_ , playing with my feelings (and Mrs. Hudson’s too) became anathema to him.

Even though the case involving the deadly disease had taken place almost a quarter of a century ago, I changed the names of the murderer and his victim to preserve the privacy of their surviving relatives. The time period was also altered for the same reason.

It is worth mentioning that in actuality Holmes’s trickery wasn’t as successful with me as he had wished and that I saw through his malingering quite soon. But I shall start from the very beginning.

January of 1890 was a particularly dreary month as I recall. The New Year hadn’t been happy due to the raging epidemic of the Russian Influenza which had originated somewhere in Siberia and reached Britain by the end of December. By January it was at its peak in London. The scourge made no distinction amongst the classes, mowing down everyone from a factory worker to the Prime Minister, who was on his sickbed for over a fortnight.

Holmes had been in one of his subdued moods even before the influenza outbreak, but when I became extremely busy with patients, he withdrew into his shell. A new case brought no change: absorbed in the investigation, Holmes barely spoke at all. With my consulting hours extended and the ever-increasing number of house calls, I had little energy left in the evenings. My feeble attempts at conversation would usually fall flat. 

Soon after Holmes’s birthday, the epidemiological situation worsened. Many doctors caught the disease themselves and brought the contagion to their own homes. Fearing for the welfare of my household, I decided that a temporary relocation to my surgery in Paddington would be best. During the same time, Stamford asked me to help out at Bart’s, so now my schedule also included the hospital and the medical tent it maintained for the poor in Southwark. Days blurred into a relentless round of sick rooms with sufferers of every age and station in life.

At first I managed to stay in touch with Mrs. Hudson via notes, but within a week or so I found myself too tired to scrawl even a few words. I would drag myself to bed well after midnight and drop asleep instantaneously.

Thus the news about Holmes knocked the wind out of me. I was in the overfilled medical tent when the nurse said an agitated lady was asking for me. My heart leapt into my mouth at the sight of Mrs. Hudson pacing outside, short of breath and her hat askew. 

“Doctor Watson,” she exclaimed, panting. “Finally! I’ve found you. It’s Mr. Holmes. He’s been ill for three days!”

I was seized with despair. The very thing I had strived to avoid by removing myself from Baker Street had come to pass. Holmes needed me, but so did all those people. This was not an occasion I could simply drop everything. Stamford, who peeped out of the tent at the sound of the commotion, only nodded as our eyes met. Bless the man.

Mrs. Hudson seemed to have regained her composure in the cab on our way home.

“Please excuse my outburst, sir,” she said in her usual staid manner. “But this time I can’t handle him. Given the circumstances, it mustn’t continue. Mr. Holmes was absent from Monday till Wednesday, and when he returned, he looked sickly and worn out. I was about to send for you at once, but he assured me that he was a little indisposed and just needed rest. There was no improvement the next day. He refused any help, and when I went up with a tray of food, he didn’t let me in. This morning he talked to me through a half-opened door, all skin and bone, with those great blazing eyes of his, insisting that he was fine. Fine indeed! I refuse to put up with such nonsense any longer.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. You were absolutely right in coming for me,” I replied, clamping down my panic with an effort.

Three precious days had been lost. I shouldn’t have left in the first place or I wouldn’t have missed the onset of Holmes’s symptoms. Over the recent weeks I had witnessed far too often how quickly people succumbed if treatment was delayed and even when it was duly provided. But Sherlock had an iron constitution. He was strong. He would fight.

The moment we arrived, I ran upstairs like lightning. The door to his room was locked. It didn’t deter me in the least, for I had my own duplicate key. He had let me have it, knowing that I was much unsettled by his penchant of locking himself in while under the influence of drugs. 

My worst fear became reality when I entered the dimly lit room. He was as white as the sheets of his rumpled bed. All of the symptoms of the influenza were present. Just as in the most severe cases among my recent patients, he was shivering, his breath laboured and wheezy. His hair was sticky with sweat, and hectic spots were bright upon his sunken cheeks. His eyes were enormous in his gaunt, bony face and held a feverish glint. Patients who looked that way didn’t last long.

“Sherlock!” I gasped and rushed to him.

“Stand back, stay where you are!” he yelled in a horrid, hoarse voice, thrusting out his thin hand in a forbidding gesture. “It’s not what you think. It’s a tropical disease. Contagious by touch! Highly contagious!”

Surely, he was delirious. I ignored his protests, of course, and was at his side in an instant. He tried to squirm away from me, but I overpowered him. Using force in such circumstances was more than justified, so I had no qualms about examining him against his will. That led to strangest results.

“No elevation of pulse or temperature,” I muttered, perplexed, feeling his wrist and his forehead. “Wait, what is this? Vaseline?”

A slick substance was smeared across my palm. At a close look, the flush on his cheeks bore a suspicious resemblance to rouge, and his paleness seemed enhanced by white powder while the crusts around his lips—

“Beeswax?!” 

I was ready to strangle him then and there. Over the years Holmes’s pranks have tended to grow more elaborate and devious, but this one really crossed the line. It was no joking matter to me. People were dying, and instead of tending to them, I was wasting my time because of his silly whim!

“I can explain,” Holmes blurted out.

“Pray do so at once,” I hissed, releasing him.

Holmes sat up and proceeded to tell me about his recent investigation. It involved a cold-blooded murderer whom I later called Culverton Smith in the published story.

“You must have heard of this traveller and zoologist making a name for himself by studying various species of animals he comes across while visiting remote parts of the world. With an ambition to gain Darwin’s fame, he planned a grand expedition around the world, counting on the inheritance from his grandfather. Imagine his rage when the grandfather left everything to his nephew instead, and the nephew started to spend the riches on such trivial things as buying a house and sending children to a prestigious school.

“Thanks to his travels, Smith is well-acquainted with a number of rare tropical diseases. One of them, the so-called atypical Sumatran malaria, has practically the same symptoms as the current influenza, except that it is not airborne and invariably kills within three or four days. Convenient, isn’t it? A person dies of malaria in the influenza-stricken city and that raises no questions whatsoever. Simply genius! 

“So Smith made a tobacco box of special design, with a small syringe hidden in the false bottom. The tip of the needle was cleverly disguised and placed right beside the lock. Smith did away with that poor devil Victor Savage by sending him the box anonymously, and later he tried the same with me. The box is on the mantelpiece, by the way. Don’t touch it.”

I couldn’t help being astonished by the effect of an intriguing case on Holmes, despite having seen the transformation many times. His black melancholy had disappeared without trace, replaced by fierce energy and excitement. Under different circumstances I would have been glad. Instead, my temper was rising.

“And you decided to persuade Smith that his scheme worked. You tested your malingering skills first on Mrs. Hudson, and then on me,” I said quietly.

“Why, yes. If a perceptive, wise lady and a licensed doctor of medicine believed my acting, it should most certainly work on Smith.” Holmes chuckled and rubbed his hands, clearly oblivious to my growing wrath. “My plan went a bit awry, though: you were supposed to keep your distance. No matter. Go fetch him. Tell him I’m at my last breath and wish to speak to him before I die. He won’t miss an opportunity to gloat.”

“For God’s sake, have you no sense at all?” I snarled. “Don’t you realise what’s going on out there? There are hundreds and hundreds of people desperate for medical help, and you drag me here to be your messenger boy? You gave Mrs. Hudson such a scare! What about her feelings? Fine, you have no respect for me; have you none for her?”

Holmes stared at me as if doused with a bucket of cold water. Truth to be told, I was somewhat shocked myself. Perhaps weariness and nerves had contributed to my ire. Worried by the yells, Mrs. Hudson came trotting from her parlour.

“Is anything amiss?” she asked warily from the threshold.

“Nothing, Mrs. Hudson,” I said in a calmer but scathing tone. “In fact, all is well. Mr. Holmes is not ill. He pretended, _for a case_. A superb performance, wasn’t it?”

“Mr. Holmes!” Mrs. Hudson seethed, beginning to tremble with indignation.

Suddenly her face became very red, she staggered and started to sink down to the floor. I dashed to her. Having caught her just in time, I led her to the armchair by the fireplace and made her recline. A glass of water with bromide of potassium and an unbuttoned collar had good effect: in a few minutes she recovered enough to be accompanied downstairs. 

The entire time I was attending to Mrs. Hudson, Holmes stood beside his bed like a ghost, his expression blank. I had no wish to see him further and would have left for Southwark immediately, but my coat had remained upstairs. When I went back for it, Holmes was still frozen to the spot. Without paying him much attention, I put on my coat and headed out.

“How is she?” Holmes’s colourless voice was barely audible.

I turned around. There was such remorse in his eyes that my heart clenched. At that moment he was not a triumphant detective, a grown and formidable man, but a scared boy.

“She will be all right. I prescribed her rest until tomorrow. Her blood pressure was too high but it should return to normal,” I said softly.

“I…” Holmes choked. “I didn’t mean to… I had no idea she would…”

Tears didn’t let him finish. Wiping them with his sleeve, he reeled a little, as if light-headed. I was stunned, at a loss what might bring such a reaction. He had never cried in my presence for as long as I had known him. His mood swings were becoming very alarming of late.

I strode to him and pulled him into an embrace, pressing him close to myself.

“It won’t happen again, I promise,” he whispered.

A naughty child who got carried away could say that. And then it struck me. He had mentioned once having lost his mother at a very young age and her death having been sudden. Mrs. Hudson, who always cared for us, was a kind of a motherly figure to us both. He must have had a nasty flashback, and in his weakened state couldn’t cope.

“I believe you,” I replied soothingly. “Sherlock, you haven’t been eating these three days, have you?”

“No, for I needed to look the part.”

The brat. This is what you get if you leave him to his own devices.

“Incorrigible,” I sighed. “Very well, your efforts shouldn’t be wasted. You wanted me to fetch Smith? I’ll do that for you.”

“Come back before he arrives. I’ll need your help to tackle him.”

And so I sallied forth. Smith refused to receive me, and when I barged into his house, I realised why Holmes needed my help. This was a Goliath of a man, about six feet and six inches, sunburned, all rippling muscle. Luckily, he was too happy to hear that Holmes was at death’s door or I would have been defenestrated. 

Smith assured me that he would come shortly; with that, I was back home, in Holmes’s room. Hiding inside the wardrobe between wigs and costumes was hardly dignified, but the furnishings of his room offered no other option.

Holmes’s plan worked like a charm. With his unequalled acting he managed to wheedle a confession from Smith and even trick the villain into sending a signal to the police ambush waiting outside. It took an athletic private detective, a former army doctor, and a police inspector to apprehend the giant of a zoologist, and the assistance of two more constables to put him into the police van. Needless to say, it was quite an exciting diversion from my everyday medical routine.

At last, the police departed, and all was quiet again. The final act of the play was typical for 221b, Baker Street: Holmes and I were sitting in our armchairs on either side of the fire.

“Admit it, you enjoyed this adventure,” Sherlock remarked slyly.

My reply was a rueful smile.

“You mustn’t blame me,” he continued. “You were away, and I was _dying_ to see you. The thought of you out there, risking your life every second… I had to bring you back, if only for a few hours. And soon enough, a chance presented itself. You are not angry?”

“No, not anymore,” I murmured, leaning forward to take his hand into mine. “I’m so relieved that you are not ill.”

“Dinner at Simpson’s?”

“For you, by all means, but I’d best not visit a public place. Remember, I might be a carrier of the influenza. It won't do for me to spread it any further.”

“We’ll order a delivery then. And stay for the night, John. I can’t stand the idea of letting you return to the front lines just yet.”

There was a tap at the door, and Mrs. Hudson came in with a tray which emanated divinely delicious smells.

“Mrs. Hudson, I prescribed that you rest!” I protested despite my churning stomach.

“How could I lie about when the two of you must be fed?” she parried. “But now that my mind is at peace, I’ll follow doctor’s orders.”

Holmes sprang to his feet, took the tray from her, and carried it to the table. She snorted, shaking her head.

“Dearest Mrs. Hudson, please, please forgive me,” he said earnestly. “I’ll clean up my room first thing in the morning. There will be no chemical experiments, no indoor shooting, and no violin playing in the middle of the night, for a week—for two weeks—for a month! And double pay for the rent, how about that?”

“I accept your apologies, Mr. Holmes,” she replied with a twinkling eye. “And you shall certainly keep your promises _or else_.”

“Watch out, Sherlock,” I said, laughing.

“I’ll be good, ma’am. Word of a gentleman.”

He bowed theatrically and kissed her hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun facts for history nerds:
> 
> The largest nineteenth-century epidemic of influenza, called ‘the Russian epidemic,’ arrived in Europe from the east in November and December of 1889. It was the first epidemic to be so widely commented on in the intensively developing daily press. First information concerning the epidemic in London appeared in the press around the middle of December 1889. ([source](https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3867475/))
> 
> The Russian flu was at the time the deadliest flu pandemic in Britain. It was the first truly urban outbreak, gliding from town to town by rail and passing through tightly packed terraces and soot-smeared workshops at speed. It even sent the prime minister Lord Salisbury to his sickbed for over two weeks, and Queen Victoria’s grandson, Prince Albert Victor, the second in line to the throne, to his grave. ([source](https://www.whodoyouthinkyouaremagazine.com/news/before-the-coronavirus-there-was-russian-flu/))
> 
> Despite appeals in the medical press for newspapers to keep the threat in perspective and not to foster ‘dread’ of the epidemic through ‘sensational telegrams’, the pandemic appears to have sparked hysteria in London, particularly among male patients. At St Bartholomew’s Hospital in Smithfield and the Royal Free Hospital in the Grays Inn Road, for instance, Samuel West, a specialist in respiratory disease, described how he had been astonished to arrive at morning surgery to find more than 1,000 patients—the majority of them men—‘clamouring for treatment’. ([source](https://www.zora.uzh.ch/id/eprint/57354/4/Russian_Influenza_lessons_revised.pdf))


	2. Chapter 2




	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a message of appreciation to **Granada-Brett-Crumbs** for her beautiful edits! I'll mail every one of them to her.


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